


'The Decision'

by blondeonblonde



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Not your) housekeeper, Angst, Drug Use, M/M, Pining, Retirement, Retirementlock, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sussex, They are totally oblivious, confused!john, days out, pull yourself together lads, seriously though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1652333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondeonblonde/pseuds/blondeonblonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn’t always think about the ‘The Decision’ on his way to visit Sherlock. In fact he tries to abstain from the thought entirely. No use inflicting pain on himself for no reason.<br/>Today however, he is feeling particularly sorry for himself and he allows himself to fully engage and wallow in his memories of that regrettable ‘Decision’ as the train speeds towards the coast and the company of the man he has been in love with for nearly 30 years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From London to Eastbourne

“Platform one for the 8.03 Southern Railway service to Eastbourne”. The ubiquitous electronic voice crackled over the quiet concourse of London Victoria station, the early Saturday hour leaving it void of its usual mass of tourists and commuters.  John Watson strained his hearing towards the tannoy as it announced “calling at Clapham Junction, East Croyden, Gatwick Airport, Haywards Heath, Brighton, Wivelsfield, Lewes….” until at last “Eastbourne” was croaked out in the recorded monotone.

Satisfied that this was the correct train he limped forward and boarded an empty carriage, choosing a window seat with a small table.

Despite having made this journey every month for the past 4 years, John still liked to be sure it was the correct train. His time today was simply too precious to waste waiting on rural platforms for the next train service back to civilisation. (He’d only done this once but the thought of the half day wasted turned his stomach to lead). 

As he settled himself into his seat he once again cursed his friend for living so far away from London. Well, not a long way perhaps, just manageable for a day trip like this, but so inconvenient and time consuming, and it was always John who had to make the journey.

He couldn’t recall when, or if, this decision had actually been made.Sherlock had most likely just rejected the idea of travel and behaved accordingly. Just as, four years ago, he had rejected the idea of detective work, London and a life with John, settling instead on a life of semi-rural isolation. John had just had to adapt. To do whatever he could to hang onto the shreds of their friendship.

“This is the Southern Railway service to Eastbourne…”. Now the train was continuing the reassuring message listing the mixture of tiny villages and suburban stations they would be passing through in the following hour and a half.

A few other passengers had boarded the train although blissfully John had most of the carriage to himself. He liked the stillness of this early morning journey. It gave him time to enjoy the delicious excitement building in his bones.  Anticipation of seeing Sherlock and spending the day in his company was always exquisite agony.

He wondered what the curious man would have them do today. He had been visiting the first Saturday of each month, without fail, for 4 years now, and each month he had no idea what would be in store. John simply turned up at the station and Sherlock took charge (like it had always been). 

He might drag John on a long walk along the downs or into treacherous caves along the seafront. He might give him beekeeping lessons or introduce him to one or other of the unusual locals he had in some way become known to. Always active, despite their now advancing age.

John sighed at this thought, always sighed at it. How old he was, how much his body creaked and how much his leg had been hurting him recently. He would struggle through the day of course, but it couldn’t be that long before he became too old for Sherlock’s company. Admittedly they were no longer chasing criminals through London but there was still a lot of Sussex to walk and explore and Sherlock showed no sign of wanting to slow down.

John rested his forehead against the cool glass of the train as his brain rattled in time with the movement of the carriage and his eyes blurred along with the kaleidoscope of colours rushing past the window. He tried not to follow these thoughts to their inevitable conclusion. It was not a good idea to let the memory of the thoughts and desires he once held strong in his heart to surface. Not when he would need all his strength to keep them locked up again all day.

He couldn’t help it though, not today, and he began to recall the days when he truly thought that he and Sherlock would be seeing in their old age together. Living together and sharing their lives together as had been their way for over 25 years.

That, of course, was before ‘The Decision’ as John called it in his mind. Much of their time together could be characterised in this way: ‘The Early Days’, ‘The Fall’, ‘The Grief Years’, ‘The Mary Saga’(the less thought about that the better), the ‘Black Period’, ‘The Celebrity Years’ and eventually ‘The Decision’ leading to ‘The Retirement’. 

He doesn’t always think about the ‘The Decision’ on his way to visit Sherlock. In fact he tries to abstain from the thought entirely. No use inflicting pain on himself for no reason. Today however, he is feeling particularly sorry for himself. The woman he has been seeing had told him yesterday that she didn’t want to see him again and although his heart is held perpetually elsewhere, he had felt a certain amount of affection for her. He would miss the distractions she promised from his loneliness.

“What did I do?” John thinks. “To make her stop wanting me?”

And that thought inevitably moved on to “what did I do to stop _him_ wanting me?” Which was by far the more profound and pressing question despite its first being asked over 4 years ago. It had lodged itself so firmly in John’s psyche that he almost found it soothing to ponder the question once again. Like turning a smooth stone over and over in your hand. A motion done so often that the sheer familiarity of the action seems to be soothing in itself, even as the meaning behind it burns.

He finally gives in, and allows himself to fully engage and wallow in his memories of that regrettable ‘Decision’ as the train speeds towards the coast and the company of the man he has been in love with for nearly 30 years.


	2. Desertion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John remembers the day of 'The Decision'.

**4 years ago:**

It had lasted remarkably longer than he had ever imagined. That should be of some comfort. It is not, of course, the blow when it comes is certainly worse for the extra years of waiting.

John realised he had stopped expecting the rejection, long overdue though it was. He had expected it always during the first few years, that despite his crooked smiles and hearty post-case laugh, Sherlock would one day get bored and cast John aside like one of their clients deemed uninteresting after all but a cursory sweep of their enquiries. The feeling had lessened through time, through what, 25-odd years of living and working together, but the unease had never quite dissolved altogether.

Of course there had been fluctuations in the temperature of their friendship over the years. It had been pushed to its limits more than once. But each time it had seemed, to John at least, to have been rebuilt stronger than ever.  Not that they ever talked about their feelings or their relationship, or tried to categorize it in any way, both men being inherently unvocal about their emotions.

John was reserved about his feelings, he knew without question that he was in love with Sherlock, but he didn't see any point in trying to progress things further. He had decided long ago to stop trying to define their relationship and force it to follow a path others would recognise. He had stopped trying to work out Sherlock’s sexuality and was content with the platonic co-dependency that they had cultivated. It’s not that he didn’t want more sometimes. Perhaps when Sherlock stretched himself out along the sofa like a cat and made an obscene self-satisfied humming noise or strolled into the living room sleep mussed and wrapped in a sheet.  But Sherlock had never shown the slightest hint of attraction to John (or anyone else for that matter) so John had thoroughly mastered the art of self-restraint, self-repression and was a skilled master at negotiating uncomplicated one-night stands

Recently though, he had thought things were the best they had ever been. Sherlock had been excitable, almost boisterous (if that word could ever be used in conjunction with a sarcastic, anti-social 60 year old), and there seemed to be a divine tension that pulsed between the two of them as if they were fusing into a single being.

There had been several memorable almost-moments in the past few months when John felt the possibility that his feelings might not be altogether unrequited, and he was filled with a constant nervous energy at the idea.

Only the other evening there had been a glorious moment of electricity between them as they sat in front of the fire.  Sherlock had pulled his chair close to John’s, body angled towards his, leaning forward a little so their knees slightly touched.

“John,” he had murmured.  “An idea has become lodged in my mind that I feel I need to explain to you.”  

His eyes moved from where they had been focused on the skirting by the fireplace straight into Johns eyes. John felt pierced in place, as if Sherlock could see into his soul. It had happened before of course, John had always been watched intently by the hyper-observant detective, but this time they were so close, nearly touching, and he felt raw and vulnerable.

John leaned forward both straining to hear Sherlock’s whispered words and trying to get as close as possible whist still maintaining his cultivated stance of plausible deniability.

Sherlock opened his mouth and took a great shuddering breath then launched into a sentence full speed. “The thing is I find myself very much….”

What he might have been about to confess John was not to know, as he was abruptly cut off by the chimes of the doorbell.

At the sound John groaned heavily and sat back into his chair and closed his eyes for a minute, making the transition in his head from personal to professional, in case the caller was a client. By the time he had opened his eyes again Sherlock had disappeared downstairs and the soft tones of Lestrade’s voice filled the flat.

He was not a client, nor even a detective, having retired a number of years ago. He was simply a friend with little to do with his spare time. He ended up staying most of the evening, regaling them (mostly John) with the most recent exploits of his two young grandchildren and the moment was never regained.

In fact Baker Street had never been busier, 25 years of mutual friends, colleagues and families traipsed through the doors a surprising amount considering the flat belonged to a supposed sociopath.  It had been great actually. John had been enjoying himself, reduced hours at the surgery, friends who were retired and available for trips out and evenings at the pub, squashed in between the normal routine of exhilarating cases and amusing clients. John was certainly happy with this side of the aging process. Sherlock however, had obviously not been. How could he, if it had led to ‘the Decision’. John had never been able to precisely work out what had led him to it, but it was clearly dissatisfaction with the life they had been leading.

The night of the blasted occurrence had actually started promisingly. An evening meal at one of their favourite restaurants (this one reminiscent of the long since disappeared Angelo’s, complete with generous patron indebted to Sherlock’s genius). It had been intimate in all the right ways, Sherlock had been both brilliant and attentive, and there was a whiff of anticipation as he struggled to control nervous excitement in tense and restless muscles.

Then, back at Baker Street after a delicious meal, Sherlock had sat close to John on the sofa and once again asked for John’s attention. He had on his vulnerable yet serious face and John felt a tightness in his stomach as the tension between them started to fizz again.

The scene was set for romance. It was dark and there was a fire dancing in the grate. Sherlock’s face was illuminated by the flames and John could read the anxiety tugging at his aging skin as he struggled to voice his statement.

“John,” Sherlock almost whispered, looking at his feet and shuffling about. “There is something important I wish to tell you”.

John could feel his chest start beating faster. Was this the moment? All roads had been leading to this, surely. 25 years – bit of a long time to work up to it, but it would be worth the wait.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time…..”

 _Please God_ , John thought. _Please can I be proven wrong?_ It wouldn’t matter that it had taken so long. Those stolen years could be forgiven. He’d had a good life really. But Christ, if he could spend the rest of his life making up the time – what a glorious proposition that would be.  John was not normally an overly emotional man, but 25 years of repressed feelings had started to be accessed now and the hope in his heart was giddying.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it, but I’ve made up my mind to take whatever consequences might come.”

Again Sherlock whispered low, nervous and rasping. John didn’t see how he could possibly be nervous, be unaware of how welcome his advances would be, surely Sherlock had to know how he felt. He hardly had a poker face and this was Sherlock, nothing could be kept secret from his omniscient sight.

“John.”

 He must have been engrossed in his own thoughts, Sherlock was becoming impatient now, as he tapped John on the knee, refocusing his attentions and continued in a more urgent tone.

 “The thing is….I’ve decided to retire, move to the country. Sussex, actually, I thought. Somewhere rural, near the coast.  Perhaps a cottage, certainly away from other people.”

 He then pursed his lips, looked away and left a pause.

John felt like he should speak but instead just stared. He knows this because whatever he was expecting, it certainly was not that, and it threw him completely off course. He tried to hide his disappointment and shock but honestly could not think of anything past the nose-dive his heart had taken.

“Retire! Not what I’d thought you were going to say, Sherlock, I’ll be honest!”

“Why not?”

“Well, only last week you had that fantastically tricky case and you were on top of the world for the next few days. I can’t see you giving that up!”

 John was proud of himself for putting together a full sentence that actually seemed to make sense. His mind was still stuck on the disappointment and stupidity he was feeling for actually thinking Sherlock might desire him.

“It’s not the work John. I’ll have more than enough to keep me busy. It’s all of the other stuff getting in the way.  London. All of this!” He swept his hand around the living room.

“But you love London!”

John continued to cling on to the conversation. He couldn’t understand what was going on. What had happened and what did Sherlock want John to say?

“It’s all too noisy John. Too much for me to take in every day. It used to be easy but now….Surely you know about the cognitive aging process, it’s too difficult to siphon out the important facts from the dross.”

Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and raked his long fingers through grey flecked hair. John knew it would be paining him to admit to any difficulties. Is that what this was about?  Sherlock feeling insecure about his abilities?

 “It’s not just that.” Sherlock sighed. “There are too many people out there. But also...” He paused just for a second to take a deep sighing breath “…in here”.

He gestured around 221B again and then sunk back down into his chair.  “Always being interrupted by someone. It’s driving me crazy!”

John was really worried now, maybe this wasn’t about Sherlock, maybe this was about John _? Too many people in here?_ Surely that could only mean that he couldn’t cope with John’s presence anymore? Had he become tired of John trying to feed him, protect him, coddle him?

John steeled himself, hoping to be mistaken as Sherlock kept up his explanation.

“So what I’m saying is, we….I…. need it. To be alone.”

“Stop! Ok, I get it, Sherlock. That’s enough!” John had almost shouted this out as he suddenly got it. Sherlock was telling him he was moving out!

Rage and guilt started to course through him, _how could he have been so stupid as to expect Sherlock to feel anything? He wants to be alone,_ John thinks bitterly, _to leave London and start a new life in the country, without me._

John’s heart threatened to sink through the floor. In fact he could feel it cracking, fracturing and pounding jagged shards into his body. Black thick blood pumping like treacle as he struggled to get his thought in order. As he ran the conversation back through his head he realised Sherlock must have been wanting to say this other evening when they were interrupted by Lestrade. This must be why there has been a tension in the air recently – it’s not desire, or love, it’s because Sherlock had been trying to tell him he’s about to leave, but doesn’t quite know how to say it.

“Yes?” Sherlock looked expectantly at John.

 “Well, you might want that Sherlock, but I certainly don’t. I would have thought I’d made that perfectly clear over the past, what, 25 years! I would have thought you’d know me better than that by now! Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”  By now John was pacing around the living room, circling the chair Sherlock was sitting on, gesticulating wildly and getting more and more agitated.

Sherlock himself seemed unaffected, untouched by any ripples of emotion. He was sitting stiffly in his chair, a shifting tension in his jaw the only outward sign of movement. He replied with a cool detachment that further riled John.

“It could be fun.”

“Oh come on!…. You’ll be bored within a week! London is the only place that can stimulate you. It has everything. I can’t understand why you’d want to leave it. I’d certainly never give it up!”

Sherlock’s voice started to turn steely and sarcastic, no longer explaining but defensive. “Thank you for your generous evaluation of my capabilities. John. I am sure I can cope with the change in pace.”

“But what are you going to do! Retired, as in no cases Sherlock? You’ll go insane!”

“I was hoping for some other distractions.”

“Oh yeah! Flower arranging with the WI, going to village fetes? Jesus! No fucking way!”

At this point Sherlock’s emotional defences had come battening down. John had seen this happen many times in the past and he knew that when his face went blank like that, with all trace of emotion wiped clean, hidden within the bastille of his mind, there was no point continuing to argue. The case was closed, the investigation over. He will have evaluated all of the evidence, and come to his conclusions. Will have made his decision on the subject and will not be swayed. The only course open to John was a tactical retreat. If he can manage it on his shaking limbs and with confusion swirling and dizzy in his head before he truly makes a fool out of himself. _Yes_. He thought, _I had better leave it there for tonight, try again tomorrow after I’ve had time to think._

“I’m not talking about this anymore. I’m going to bed.”

He almost ran up the stairs determined to reach his room before his mind caved in completely. He was so full of anger at himself and bitter disappointment that he didn’t move for 30 minutes. Just sat on his bed, fists clenched, trying to understand what had just happened.

He was only compelled to move when Sherlock started to play the violin in a melancholic fashion. His resentment simply faded with the notes into a resigned sadness as he realised he may soon not get to hear the sound again. He crept under the covers then, still clothed and tried not to think of what his life would be like out on the battlefields of London alone.

The next morning John felt calmer but he was still up for a fight. He promised himself he would stand up for their friendship again, look out for Sherlock’s wellbeing as well as his own. (He wasn’t simply being selfish, Sherlock surely wouldn’t cope for long without the work regardless of what he believes he is capable of.) So he walked downstairs as a soldier ready for conflict.

In reality there was no battle. Sherlock simply did not allow it. As soon as John walked into their shared space he sat up from his usual position on the sofa (stretched out, fingers beneath the chin- he had clearly been up thinking all night) and took charge.

He looked John solidly in the eye and said vehemently “I have decided to go to Sussex despite your feelings. It is the best thing for both of us, and don’t you dare think you can persuade me otherwise”.

And from that moment John’s soldier façade crumbled, his inner emotional coward crept back in and his resolution to fight failed again. Sherlock had obviously deduced what John was going to say and rejected it already, he was clearly resolute in his intentions. All John could do now was to ensure they could keep as much of their friendship as possible, despite the separation to come.

This is the moment it turns into ‘The Decision’ in Johns head. In that moment seeing the steely glint in Sherlock’s eye, John knew it was going to happen. In Sherlock’s mind he had already bought a house and moved out. Making it a real was only a formality now.  The decision had been made and finalised, signed in red ink and printed in triplicate.  John felt so utterly removed from it being decided, so impotent to this life-changing assertion that it was easier to think of it as a separate event rather than anything he could have had control over. A force of nature, rather than a conversation. Sherlock had made his mind up about something and it had happened without any real input from John despite the radical changes it would make to his life. In fact he thought he had put forward some rather adamant arguments against the ruling, but still it had been made.

John was just working out how to respond in a way that wouldn’t betray his hurt when Sherlock spoke again, quietly this time. 

“You can come and visit me. If you can bring yourself to.”

“If I can bring myself to?” John spluttered. “Of course I will! This doesn’t change anything, you know. You’re still my best friend!”

“Thank you for being so understanding.” Sherlock replied curtly then swung himself off the sofa, crossed the room and made a dash to his bedroom.

After this they didn’t speak about it much more. It was too painful for John to approach the subject and Sherlock was too busy, frantically trying to put all of his plans together as quickly as possible in typical Sherlock fashion. Why wait for anything when you could have it now?

Sherlock moved within the month and John was left on his own in Baker Street. An unexpected arrangement which he was grateful for. It helped him maintain a semblance of familiarity in his life, even though its centre of gravity had been forcefully removed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting! I apologise for any errors, this is un-betaed, (although I am English so hopefully it will be ok on that score!)


	3. The Auction House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first half of John's visit: Sherlock spends the morning showing off, and John gets an unexpected gift.

“We will shortly be arriving at Eastbourne. Please ensure you take all luggage with you when you leave the train.” 

John was brought back to the present by the train’s recorded announcement and set about gathering his possessions.

He tried to pull himself together and shrug off the lingering melancholy than clung to his memories; He was going to enjoy today, and he knew that as soon as he saw Sherlock he would feel alright again.  He was going to revel in the company of the fascinating man and be treated to his unique view of the world that so few others ever got to see. Yes, he was going to enjoy today.

Anticipation built within his muscles as he left the train and headed for the ticket barriers, snaking his way through the throng of passengers. It was mid-morning now and the station was heaving with the bodies and sounds of hundreds of travellers. John fed his ticket into the barrier, stepped through the gates and rushed towards the exit. He knew where Sherlock would be, he always waited by the back wall of the car park, never in the station.

As John passed through the exit and crossed the pavement he spied the unmistakable silhouette of his friend. Sherlock was leaning against his battered Land Rover, ankles crossed in front of him, hands in his coat pockets, looking every inch a dashing hero in an adventure novel, or an advert for Barbour.

Age had treated him kindly, John thought, despite the tremendous stresses he had made his body endure over his lifetime.

Much like the Land Rover he was a bit rough around the edges, the hint of various scars tracing soft lines over his exposed skin, wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead (probably due to many years of scowling at others incompetence) but this only added to the glamour of his appearance. His black curls, now silver at the temples, had not receded and had merely been trimmed shorter. The curls still fell across his forehead but had lost some of their precision and now looked wild and windswept, whether Sherlock had stopped using product to tame them or whether exposure to the sea air had that effect, John did not know.

 “Sherlock! Great to see you!” John greeted Sherlock warmly and held out his hand to meet the gigantic paw of his friends’. “It’s come around quickly again, hasn’t it!”

Just like that he had switched back to friend-mode from the pathetic pining wreck he had felt on the train. It no longer surprised John the ease at which the persona fitted back into place.  

“How was your journey?”

Sherlock always asked this. John thought it was perhaps one of the pre-programmed phrases he seemed to have been taught very young, like “thank you for having me” or “how was your day.” He only employed these phrases when he wanted to appear polite (for a case) or when he didn’t know what else to say.

“Hmm? Oh. Journey was fine.”   _The journey was painful,_ John admitted to himself, _best to not discuss it._

 “What have you been up to?”

John by now was an expert at diverting Sherlock’s attention, and he employed the tactic regularly.

 “Well…The bees have started to prepare for winter. The worker bees have been dragging the drones out of the hive and will not let them return, causing them to starve to death! This eliminates the drones, who have no reproductive use in winter and reduce the consumption of winter honey stores, it’s very clever. So I’ve been cataloguing that. Also the chapter for my book on identifying textile fibres – researching angora has been particularly interesting -did you know for instance that the German Angora rabbit….”

 After 10 minutes of information about bees and fibres John reckoned he should probably step in, or they would end up standing in a car park for the rest of the day.

“What have you got in store for me today then?”

Looking at the grey clouds above them he silently prayed for something indoors, although that was not usual for these visits, Sherlock apparently believing that John needed fresh air after the suffocating environment of Central London.

“Wait and see John. I thought perhaps an indoor day today. I can’t stand your moods if you get wet!”

Sherlock looked up at the sky and then back to John with a raised eyebrow.

“Honestly. I’d have thought if you could survive a war zone you could cope with a little bit of damp!”

John huffed at this teasing, then decided he enjoyed it really, and wanted to encourage Sherlock. If he was in a playful mood they would have a particularly fun day.

“You forget that I was stationed in Afghanistan, Sherlock. Not a lot of rain there. Now, give me a nice desert and I’ll show you how hardy I am!”

“Not many deserts near Eastbourne, I’m afraid. I suppose we could visit the sand dunes at the west end of the…”

“Sherlock! I don’t need a desert. Indoors will be fine. Whatever we do will be ok.”

John meant that sincerely. They had done so many unusual things over the years and John could honestly say he had enjoyed every activity Sherlock had brought his way. Some he had been apprehensive about and thought he would not have enjoyed them, but being there with Sherlock somehow made it exciting.

The wreck fishing they had done last spring was one such occasion. John had never been keen on fishing, had always found it tedious when his grandfather had taken him out as a boy, and he had not seen any more appeal to fishing over the remains of a wrecked ship. However the sheer quantity of fish they managed to catch and Sherlock’s delighted reaction every time he caught something had made the trip worthwhile.

The owner of that boat had been a marine biologist that was an old client and he was repaying them a favour for Sherlock’s help on his case. Sherlock didn’t seem to like to use professional services, preferring instead to rely on acquaintances to pay back favours, or using his celebrity status to persuade locals to provide their services on a one to one basis. The marine biologist had given them an entertaining lecture on each of the fish as they caught them, explaining their markings, teeth, evolution and interesting features. Despite Johns initial reluctance they had spent the whole day captivated.

Sherlock ushered John into the Land Rover and drove through the crowded streets of Eastbourne and out onto the surrounding country roads. He began to chatter about bees again and John contented himself watching the Sussex countryside roll past the passenger window.

After about twenty minutes they reached the small town of Lewes, which they had explored during a memorable visit the previous autumn (it having the most extravagant and famous bonfire night celebrations in the country).

They pulled up outside a large old brick building with the words “Gorringes Auction House” above the door. Sherlock jumped out of the car and John followed at quickly as his troublesome leg would allow.

“John, do you remember the case we worked on in 2019, I believe you called it ‘Wounded in Auction’.”

“I remember sitting in the auction room and you showing off, deducing the value of all of the objects and looking very smug!”

“Ah.” 

Sherlock looked suddenly worried, as if he had misjudged the situation, until John spoke again.

“I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy myself, it’s always brilliant watching your deductions, if that’s what we’re up to!” 

John pulled Sherlock by his arm into the auction house, through the ornate wooden arch into the auction rooms and found them two seats in the middle section of seating.

Before the first lot they browsed through the catalogue, today an auction of fine art and antiques from the 18th and 19th centuries.

 Then, during the actual auction, Sherlock spent two hours deducing the items being sold, regaling John with a whispered history of the objects, what they had been used for and who their previous owners had been.  He had also deduced who would buy the items working out from the cut of a man’s hair, or the way he crossed his legs whether he owned an antique jewellery business, was a collector of Wedgewood, or ran a bric-a-brac stall at a local car boot sale.

John giggled particularly hard at one point as Sherlock pointed out a man trying to pay for his wife’s breast enhancement surgery by selling off his collection of antique Jelly moulds.

Sherlock knocked him in the ribs with a grin and pointed at the next item in the catalogue. It was a Victorian snuff box with an enamelled lid featuring a pastel hued painting of a woman on a floral swing, holding both a small child and a puppy. It was disgustingly overly sentimental even for the Victorians. The sight of it did nothing to halt John’s giggles.

“Will anyone start the bidding at £30? £30 for this enamelled snuff box? Anywhere in the room?”

The auctioneer started his patter, but no-one seemed to be interested in the tiny decorated box.

Sherlock pointed out its owner sitting nervously two rows behind them, wringing his hands nervously, eyes desperately darting around the room.

“Idiot!” Sherlock muttered. “He thinks the sale of this item, which he inherited from his grandmother, will help him pay off some of his gambling debts but the item has no real value. God knows why the auctioneer decided to take it on. The imbecile hasn’t even put on a reserve price.”

“I think the idiot will be the one whoever pays for that hideous thing.” John replied, pointing at the close up picture of the lid in the auction catalogue. “The sight of it is making me nauseous!”

He started making little fake retching noises and screwed up his face as if in agony. Sherlock looked amused and then mischievous.

“£20 will anyone give me £20? £15? That’s as low as I’ll go?”

Just as the auctioneer held up his gavel to end the lot a deep voice echoed across the silent hall.

“£15”

It took John a number of seconds to realise that everyone was now looking their way, and then a few more seconds to realise it had been Sherlock who had entered the bid.

“What on earth are you doing?” John hissed, his giggles now dissolved.

“Buying you a present!”

John was still trying to process this new event, but the auctioneer was clearly fed up with proceedings. He swiftly brought down the gavel, announced the winning bid and moved on.

“No advance of £15. Sold to the gentleman in the dark coat. The next lot is number 3024….”

Sherlock grinned as he took in the horrified look on the seller’s face as he realised his family heirloom had only reached £15, and John’s face as he struggled to comprehend that he now owned a rather hideous antique snuff box.

“It’s a gift John, don’t look so horrified!”

John was still confused. Did Sherlock really think he liked it?

“But it’s disgusting!”

“That’s charming! I buy you a gift and you tell me it’s disgusting! I do expect you to keep it you know. Sentiment and all that!”

Ah, it was all a joke. Sometimes he couldn’t tell with Sherlock, even after all this time. His lack of social skills sometimes got in the way of his humour.  John smiled cheekily at Sherlock, but it soon turned into a frown; Sherlock was displaying such a mischievously evil grin that John decided he had to get his revenge.

They sat through four more lots before the perfect item came up. A small porcelain figure of a seated cat, with flowers painted across its fur and a collar studded with tiny purple and pink gemstones.

It cost a little more than the snuff box, but John though it was worth it to see the combined mixture of amusement and disgust on Sherlock’s face when presented with it, especially when John had made very certain he _also_ expected the gift to be kept.

There was a break between lots at 12.30 and once they had picked up and paid for their items and stowed them in coat pockets (John thanked Sherlock silently for buying him something so small) Sherlock led John back out to the car.

“Thanks for that Sherlock,” John said as they climbed in.

 “For the deductions, I mean, not the ….” He gestured to his left pocket where the snuff box lay.  “I know you enjoy showing off, but it was nice for me to hear too.”

It had been enthralling to see his whole mind focused on the objects at the auction, giving each one his total attention.

Sherlock had mellowed as he had aged and no longer seemed to feel the compulsion to be the smartest man in the room, and as he no longer took cases, John rarely saw him in the throes of his deductions any more. It was reminding him of three decades of solving puzzles and his mind was starting to stray into dangerous territory again…

“Right, well, I bet your primeval body is aching for sustenance by now.” Sherlock replied as he started the car. “I think it’s time for lunch. I’ve found an unusual little place a few villages along. You’ll like it, it has animals.”

John smiled at him, felt his stomach rumble and wondered when it was that Sherlock Holmes had become better at judging his body’s needs than he had.

  


Illustration to accompany this chapter:[ Sherlock waits at the station](http://missmarplesmuse.tumblr.com/post/91969268230/another-image-based-on-my-fic-the-decision-im)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An undramatic chapter! I was going to post the whole days adventures at once, but i'd finished this part so thought I might as well put it up.  
> It's just a bit of happy good times really after all the angst in the previous parts. Hope you enjoy it.


	4. Lunch and Spies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the boys day out. They have lunch, are rubbish at talking about their feelings and learn about espionage in the Cold War.

Lunch was at a tiny little village pub with a thatched roof and roaring fire. As Sherlock had promised, it was full of animals. Three dogs roamed free under the tables, tanks of snakes and lizards lined the back wall, there was a parrot at the bar (reciting the gossip it had heard during evenings past) and the garden housed a pigsty complete with two enormous spotted pigs.

John and Sherlock sat in an alcove away from the bar and were treated to delicious home-cooked food by the landlady, who seemed to recognise them from the papers and demanded a photograph with them to put up behind the bar.

They ate their meals mostly in silence until Sherlock decided he had eaten enough. He started prodding the remains with his fork then launched in with a comment he had obviously been trying to keep in.

“So she dumped you then, your latest woman-friend?”

John chewed his mouthful slowly. He really did not want to get into this conversation.

“I thought you had no interest in whichever ‘vapid and inconsequential’ women I happen to be seeing?”

“I don’t.” Sherlock looked scandalised at the thought.

“Well, why are you asking then? Surely you’re not going to give me relationship advice.”

Sherlock snorted with disgust then added with a grin, “I just think it’s amusing that after all those years of blaming _my_ interference on your failed relationships- it turns out you’re actually just a terrible boyfriend!”

 “Git! Give me some words of comfort, why don’t you!”

“Well, you can’t blame me this time, John. I’m hardly a drain on your time these days.”

 _No_ , John thought, _only a drain on my emotions, will power and sexual desire. Not much to interfere in my love life!_

“No.” John sighed, reflecting his inner thoughts. “It’s just me, I really am a shit boyfriend!”

He mock rolled his eyes and dropped his forehead to the table. 

“More like shit old-man-friend.” Sherlock teased. “I can see your bald spot from this angle!”

“Oi” John snapped his head up and lightly punched Sherlock on the arm across the table which elicited a small smile.  Sherlock took a minute to contemplate his next question and asked it with a sincere and fervent voice.

“Why do you bother with them though? Don’t you find the effort exhausting?”

“The effort?” John muttered.  _The effort is the only thing keeping me from drowning in my own sorrow you oblivious prick._

“It’s not about that, I need the company, Sherlock. My best friend pissed off and left me alone, remember!”

 _Oh!_ John gasped horrified, _that wasn’t good, it didn’t sound that bitter in my head._ Sherlock’s face started to turn an unpleasant mixture between hurt, confusion and anger.

John felt trapped suddenly, between the defensive urge to protect his true feelings from scrutiny and sadness at having made Sherlock look so lost.  He did the only thing he knew how to do in this situation, and that is to deflect the heat away from himself. It was not the kind thing to do, but he knew it would be effective.

“So what about you then Sherlock? Still pressing on alone, or have you changed the habit of a lifetime and actually located your libido?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and started to glare daggers into John who shifted in his seat but remained stoic under their gaze.

“Can we not change the habit of a lifetime and stop this conversation right now. We have avoided discussing my sexuality for 30 years, do you think we could possibly struggle to the ends of our lives without it coming up again?” 

The reply came as expected and the hurt had been wiped from Sherlock’s face which was left artfully blank. This relieved John, although he knew it shouldn’t.

“Jesus, I’m sorry.  I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m just concerned about you. That’s all.”

“I don’t need your pity, John. “

“Pity? No, Sherlock. I’m not…. It’s just, well, I want you to be happy.”

Sherlock didn’t reply to this, he simply gave John a small smile and returned to pushing the remnants of his lunch around his plate. John wished they had never started the conversation. This is what happened when they tried to talk about anything emotional; one or both of them got pissed off. No wonder they didn’t try it very often.

A few minutes passed in silence before Sherlock appeared to be re-energised and jumped to his feet.

“Right then, drink up! Our next stop awaits. I do hope you’ll like this. I met this intriguing gentleman in a shop last month, and he has a rather interesting collection I’m hoping he’ll show us.”

___________________________

Sherlock drove through the winding country lanes and out towards the sea, the landscape becoming more ragged and buildings spaced further apart as they climbed in altitude. He pulled up on a deserted road on the side of the cliff face, parked the Land Rover and urged John out of the car.

“But I thought we were visiting someone?”  John complained loudly. The weather had not improved and it was drizzling steadily. He did not fancy getting wet only to indulge one of Sherlock’s whims.

“We are, you idiot. Get out of the car.”

Sherlock made his way down a steep winding path clinging to the side of the cliff and followed it until he was out of sight.

John swore loudly, hurried out of the car, pulled up his collar against the rain and tried to catch him up. He stopped dead as soon as he rounded the corner to gasp at the view. They were perched at the top of the cliff looking out onto the stormy grey-green sea. It was the perfect vantage point and John fancied that if it wasn’t so misty from the almost-rain they may well be able to see the coast of France in the distance.

“You can see why they chose this spot, can’t you!”

Sherlock had come up behind him also taking in the view.

“Chose it for what?”

John still didn’t know what they were doing there.

“Honestly John, if I have to give you another lecture about observation, I think I shall lose my mind.”

The spell of the sea was broken by this harsh statement and John spun around to take in what he had been missing.

“Oh!”

Behind them set into the cliff face was a concrete doorway with a heavy duty metal door, and now that he looked closely part of the cliff top above them was also made of concrete, although it had been painted to match the grass.

“It’s a bunker?”

“Correct John. It’s a World War Two bunker, perfect spot to keep an eye on the Channel. It also happens to be the home of retired Staff Sergeant Ross Blackwell, who has presumably found it hard to fit back into civilian life!”

He looked the concrete structure up and down and both men giggled for a minute before Sherlock knocked on the door.

Ross Blackwell was a fairly small man, similar in height to John although much rounder with a large stomach, bald head and several lines of deep wrinkles on his forehead. He had a deep Geordie accent which although presumably faded since his youth, still retained most of its lilting character. He seemed pleased to see the two men and ushered them through the doorway, leading them deep into the bunker.

John had expected it to be dark inside but there were several sky lights above them and a wide glass viewing window along the front wall. His eyes were drawn to the other walls of the room too, it was sparsely furnished except for rows of cabinets and storage crates overflowing with unusual electronic items and bits of paper.

“Ah! Sorry about the mess, gents. Don’t get too many visitors out here! Um, let me just clear out a bit of space, let you sit down.”

He moved a few boxes off two old folding chairs and then started making space on what was presumably a dining table.

“I’m glad you’ve taken me up on my offer, Sherlock. It’s good to see you again.”

“How could I resist, when I know what you have stored away up here.”  
  
He turned to John and started to explain.

“John, Ross here is a collector of espionage ephemera. In fact he has the largest private collection of Cold War spy equipment in the world, isn’t that right?”

Ross looked both proud and embarrassed. He rubbed his neck absentmindedly as he spoke.

“Yes, it has become rather a large collection. Sort of an obsession I suppose. Always been interested in spy stories, then when I came out of the army I needed something to fill my time and the great hole left in my life.”

He looked sad and slightly nervous, but pulled himself together quickly.

“Well then, let’s see what I can find for you to have a play with!”

He rummaged around in box after box and John could honestly not believe the volume of valuable artefacts he was shown.

They spent all afternoon looking at the various gadgets and equipment Ross though they would like. John mostly pretended he was James Bond and was particularly fascinated with a piece of sixties camera equipment disguised to look like a coat button. He walked around the room for at least ten minutes trying to surreptitiously take photos without Sherlock noticing. (He did, of course, and berated John that there wasn’t even any film in the camera.) He also reminisced for quite some time with Ross about life in the army, swapping stories about life in and out of uniform.

Sherlock however was more intrigued by objects he thought would come in useful for a consulting detective, (not that he needed them anymore) such as a decoder lock pick, and spent the time questioning Ross as to their use and purpose during the Cold war. He also took a photo of a poison dart shooting umbrella which he sent to Mycroft with a snarky comment.

As John had seen that morning Sherlock still liked to show off occasionally, but this was the new improved Sherlock and he was equally as happy to absorb the knowledge of others as well as depart his own. At some point he had obviously decided that he did not in fact know everything of importance and that there were some subjects (specifically those outside the arena of crime) about which he could learn from others.

This meant that quite often they spent quiet afternoons like this, cosily ensconced in the front rooms of experts, being taught forgotten arts, exploring rare artefacts and hidden treasures and learning the histories of ancient and fantastic figures of history. 

This also meant that John was now fantastic at pub quizzes.

It was a typical Sherlock response to aging, John thought. Most people on reaching retirement started trailing around stately homes, joined English Heritage and the National Trust, visited open gardens and joined the University of the Third Age.  Learning about deadly spy equipment was just Sherlock’s eccentric way of joining this tradition.

Towards the end of the afternoon John allowed himself a guilty 5 minutes to stare at Sherlock in the pretence of listening to his recollections of a long distant case.

He tried to memorise the blaze in his eyes and the animated movements of his hands as he gesticulated his way through the intricacies of their involvement in catching a particularly crafty criminal.

John pondered how human he looked, alight and alive, unlike so many times in London where he was stony and silent, removed from the world. Sussex seemed to have breathed a new freshness into him, given him a renewed enthusiasm, especially for the pleasure of other peoples company.

John tried to remember if they ever just hung out and _chatted_ like this with anyone in London. He couldn’t think of a single time. It had been strange at first, so unlike Sherlock, but after a while John grew used to the new sociable version of him. It gave him less to be angry about anyway, Sherlock for the first time since John had known him was charming and well-mannered in public without it seeming fake or manipulative.

At first when he’d moved down here and seemed to take to the place John had felt jealous and hurt. Sherlock’s enjoyment of his new life went against everything John wanted for himself and he couldn’t let go of his selfish motivations.

He had hoped that life away from London, and dare he say it, away from John, would prove to be too tedious to endure and would not last long. During the first few months he constantly expected the (ex) consulting detective to stroll back in to Baker Street, clutching the skull and declaring the countryside pointless and that he had exhausted all pleasure to be had there.

This had however, not happened. Instead Sherlock seemed to enjoy the place more each time John visited, and asked less about London.  After two years of visits to a bouncing and excitable Sherlock, John had had to accept that Sherlock seemed happier than he had ever been at 221B. Happier than he had ever been when they shared their lives, living together, working together.

Perhaps he had to admit, that for Sherlock, living alone had certainly been what he needed, even if for John the separation still felt raw, as if he was walking around incomplete.

Suddenly John pulled out of his thoughts and scrambled for his watch. _Shit_. _Was that the time already?_ He knew they would have to leave straight away if he stood any chance getting to the station on time to catch his return train. _Why did the day always have to go so fast?_ He felt like he had only just arrived.

Guiltily, at the thought of stopping Sherlock mid flow through a really excellent retelling of the Priory School kidnappings, he made himself be responsible, even as his head was swearing; _Stay, more, don’t go yet, 10 more minutes, stay for dinner, you don’t need to get that particular train, get a later one…._

 “Sherlock. This has been excellent, and thank you so much Ross, but I’m afraid we are going to have to go now, I’ve got a train to catch.”

To his credit Sherlock simply stopped mid-flow at this, stood up to put on his coat and shook hands with Ross, turning towards the door to leave. John also gave Ross a quick handshake and another thank you and hurried out as well.

________________________

Sherlock pulled up to the station and parked in his usual spot. He didn’t get out, just turned around to look at John.

“Here we are.”

“Then I guess I should be going. Thanks for another brilliant day Sherlock.”

“My pleasure, John.”

“You’d better start planning, ‘cause it’ll be hard to top getting to play spies for the afternoon!”

“I’ll start considering it. See you next month.”

Sherlock held his hand out over the hand brake, and they awkwardly shook hands across the car. They always shook hands at the end of the day, and it was always awkward, but Sherlock never got out of the car.

John felt the warmth of Sherlock grip seep into his bones and start to tingle along his arm. He let go reluctantly and put his hand out for the door handle, bracing himself for the moment he had to walk away.

“One last thing, John…”

John looked towards Sherlock with anticipation, no idea what would come next, there was a pause and his breath caught ever so slightly.

“Don’t you dare get rid of that snuff-box!”

John laughed, pushed open the door and swung his legs onto the tarmac below. He leaned back into the car to respond.

“Same to you, Sherlock Holmes. Next month I expect to see that cat pride of place on your mantelpiece!”

He gave Sherlock a cheeky smile and took one long last look at the one he got in return, slammed the door shut and made his way towards the station entrance. He heard the Land Rover pull away and drive off into the misty night.

Unfortunately for John when he got to the platform there was no train in sight. He glanced up at the information board and groaned. _Incident on the line.  Major delays to all services._

The delay currently stood at 45 minutes, but John had spent enough time on British Railways to know that was unlikely to be an accurate estimate. He sunk down onto a bench utterly wretched. _If only Sherlock had come into the station with me, we could have had more time together._

It was going to be an awful wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the days adventures: Again, nothing too dramatic, and I tried to keep it concise - but the word count keeps getting away from me.  
> Things will start happening soon, I promise!  
> Oh, and I think there are a few references in here that might not make sense outside the UK, so if you want anything clarified, please ask.


	5. Stranger on the platform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock's housekeeper on the platform and is confused!

John sat alone on a cold, damp bench on the station platform and tried desperately not to let the sudden ache of being alone overwhelm him.

This moment always felt terrible, no matter how many times he had endured it. He could still feel the texture of Sherlock’s hand in his as they said goodbye. Absentmindedly he balled the fingers of his other hand into his left palm, seeking out the phantom pressure. He started to replay the day in little bursts, recording the important moments now in a desperate attempt to memorise them before they become the distant memories of ‘London John’.  He tried to remember different snippets of conversation, trying to work out if he gave himself away at any point, revealed too much, and tried to interpret the meaning in some of Sherlock’s more eccentric turns of phrase.

He knows he should stop thinking about it, maybe plug in his mobile, watch some tv, listen to something loud that will fill his mind.

Slowly he noticed a soft and feminine voice drifting towards him across the damp air of the platform.

“….I hope you don’t mind me coming over, dear, but you’re John Watson, aren’t you? Can I…?”

A kindly looking woman around John’s age stood earnestly looking at him and pointed to the empty half of the bench with her large over-flowing handbag.

John was taken aback by this sudden intrusion into his despair. He rarely got recognised, unlike Sherlock who was much more of a celebrity due to his knack for attracting the attentions of the tabloid press. John was famous-ish, and had his own set of fans and a tiny fan club, but mostly he was treated to a look of half-recognition, the type you give to very old school friends and distant one night stands.

“Yes, I’m John Watson,….John.. um…feel free.” He gestured to the seat next to him and beckoned the woman to sit down.

“I recognised you, you see. From Sherlock’s photos.”

“And you are?”

“Oh! I’m Mrs Ruth Charnwood, his housekeeper dear! Sorry, should have said!”

John chuckled inwardly at the thought that Sherlock actually had a housekeeper now, then shuddered with a pang for Mrs Hudson, who had been buried nearly fifteen years. He wondered why he had never heard of this Mrs Charnwood before but was glad that at least Sherlock had someone to look after him.

“So it’s you I should thank for him being so well fed then is it?”

He grins and takes a moment to study her. She couldn’t have been much older than John, although the clothes she wore made her look more old fashioned and frumpy than his classic jumper and shirt combo. She wore a floral dress despite the cold weather, with a buttoned up purple cardigan and a matching purple necklace. Her hair was permed and obviously dyed, a greyish blonde which seems almost metallic. Her fingernails were long and pointed, painted in a rather vulgar pink. She looked kindly and patient, but John suspected she must have a bit of steel underneath to be able to put up with Sherlock.

 “Hang on a minute, he has photos of me?” 

(Sherlock’s was not the sort of cottage to have photos of family and friends covering its walls.)  


“Well, I don’t know what you call them these days… digital image thingamabobs – you know on his projector.”

John smiled, he did know the projector very well, Sherlock had retained his love of technology even into his sixties and had been overflowing with excitement when he got his hands on the new gadget. It displayed the laptop screen into the middle of the room or space, so you could literally look at objects from multiple angles and walk around them. Back at Baker Street Sherlock had solved several cases whilst staring at crime scene photos projected onto the air in front of this armchair.

He nodded at Mrs Charnwood and flashed her an encouraging smile. Talking was a welcome distraction from the gnawing pain of leaving and John was desperate to get more exposure to Sherlock even if through second hand reports. It was comforting to think that people still thought of them as a package, as friends and colleagues, and that he would be trusted with these intimate details of his life.

“He put up some old case files and newspaper articles for me when I first started working for him. Such great adventures you boys had. The things you must have seen, eh? Oh, and once he had a visitor over who he was talking to about them, arguing over some detail or other, so I saw them again.”

 “Yeah, he still goes on about all our old adventures. With all the visitors he has you must have heard about them all by now!”

Mrs Charnwood looks puzzled at this and seemed to consider her answer carefully.

“He never has any visitors dear, not whilst I’ve been there. Well, apart from his brother sometimes, and the lovely man who was asking about his old case that time, he was a policeman I think… silver hair, lovey smile.”

That must be Lestrade. John knows he went to visit Sherlock once to talk about an old case a couple of years ago. But surely there must be more than that? They can barely walk the streets without bumping into someone that Sherlock knows.

“And now you!”  Mrs Charnwood continued.  “It’s so nice for him to have someone to come and visit! Have you enjoyed yourself?”

 “Uh…yes…we had a nice day, went to an auction house, talked to a man about the Cold War.”

_Had a bit of a fight over lunch, bought each other hideous gifts, had an awkward hand shake in the car..._

“Oh, that’s nice.”

John was confused about this conversation. This woman seemed to know Sherlock well, yet he’d never mentioned her to him. How had they never met?

“So…where are you off to then?”

John nodded his head towards the empty platform and raised a questioning eyebrow. He needed to find out more about her to try and silence all of his mind’s warning bells that were telling him something wasn’t quite right.

“London, going to visit my daughter. I always go – the first weekend of the month. Sherlock arranges it all for me, the lovely man. One of the first things he did when I started working for him. It’s partly how he pays me.”

This made even less sense; John was astonished at this kind gesture from Sherlock, a man who never seemed to put others needs before his own.

“You go every month?”

 “Yes, for the weekend, the only reason I’m not there now is I was a little poorly yesterday, decided to postpone a day. My daughter doesn’t mind.”

There was a little gap in the conversation at this point as both sides thought over the others responses. Mrs Charnwood was the first to vocalise her intrigue.

“Do you visit Sherlock often then?”

“Yes, quite often. Every month in fact.”

“Strange we’ve never met then really!” She gave a little chuckle.

“Hmm, it is, isn’t it.”

Could it be a coincidence that Sherlock sent his housekeeper away on the same weekend that John always visited? Did he not want them to meet? What was the _point?_

“So, uh, what’s he like? At home, I mean. _”  Without me_

“What’s he like? Well, you lived with him long enough dear, you should know!”

“Hmm?”

“You know…the moods, the anger, not leaving the house for days at a time (touch of depression if you ask me, but then you’re the doctor). I’m sure he was just the same with you.”

“Yes, he was all of that...but I thought he was happier out here?”

_He seems content, he must be happy. Or as happy as Sherlock can be without a serial killer on the loose!_

“Maybe he is, love, he’s just a grump naturally, isn’t he? My son’s the same, wherever he is, always sulking and moaning. Never happy!”

She beamed when she spoke of him as though he was a child despite his only being a couple of years younger than she was.

John thinks about this. He’d always believed this to be true about Sherlock, that his dark days were just part of his manner, the burden of his over-active brain. Hadn’t he said so on that first day they met “sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” John couldn’t believe he could still remember that. But he seemed so contented here. He was playful, talked lovingly about his bees, met interesting people, burned with the joy of life _._ John had just assumed he was like that all the time now. That was what had made the separation bearable; knowing how much good it had done to Sherlock’s state of mind.  Had he been wrong?

“What’s he like when he’s depressed?”

“Well, let’s see…he doesn’t get dressed or leave the house, lounges around in one of those preposterous dressing gowns. Is unspeakably horrid to me (it’s ok, dear, I’m used to it) and is angry sometimes, I suppose, or perhaps frustrated. He breaks things.”

“How often?” 

By now John doesn’t really want to hear the answer, but he has to know.

“More often than not, love, really. You sound concerned. I thought you knew him well? He talks about you all the time. I just presumed you’d seen it all before.”

“Oh, I have. I have.”

John rakes his hand through his hair and inhales a few deep breaths to steady himself. He doesn’t understand. They’d had such a lovely day and he’d thought he had understood where they stood, how Sherlock was feeling. Now though?  Rather than being content here was he actually terribly bored as John had feared? Had he been pretending all this time? Why would he possibly need to do that?

“It’s lovely that you’ve been visiting him. I worry about him being so alone.”

The announcement came across the station that the delayed train was approaching to take the waiting passengers to London.

“Are you coming, Dr Watson? I think the train’s here.”

John had forgotten all about the train but he made up his mind in a second – he needed to go back and talk to Sherlock. Find out what was going on here and sort out the mess in his mind now. If he waited he might not have the nerve for what could be a difficult conversation.

“I, um… I think I’ve left something at Sherlock’s house.” He made a show of patting his jacket pockets. “I think I’ll just pop back. I’ll get a later train.”

“Oh, that’s a pain, especially as we’ve just waited all that time! Here, have my key for now, just leave it on the side as you go. Sherlock might not be in, you know how he disappears sometimes.”

“Thanks, I’ll leave it out for you.”

“Well, goodbye, Dr Watson. Lovely to have met you. Good to put a face to the name.”

“And nice to have met you too, and thanks again for looking after Sherlock, Lord knows he needs it! Have a lovely time with your daughter.”

He turned and for the second time that day rushed out of the station. This time desperately looking for a taxi that would take him back to Sherlock’s cottage. He just hopes the perplexing man will be at home and willing to explain exactly what was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change to their routine. Will it be enough to force John to confront some of his issues and actually talk to Sherlock? You'll have to wait and see!
> 
> I hope you like it, i'm having a lot of fun writing, and trying to go as fast as possible with the updates. This is as usual un-beta'd so I apologise for any errors and lapses in judgement!


	6. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a shock on his return to the cottage.

The taxi took an age to reach the cottage. It was dark outside, rain falling steadily, smearing dribbling patterns onto the window pane, and John was feeling the effects of a long and tiring day. He had no idea what he would say when he got to the house, and no clue what the outcome would be, but that was precisely what was making him so uneasy in the first place: he had no idea what was going on.

Hard as he was to read, John had always though Sherlock was being honest with him. He didn’t usually see the point in lying (except during a case, or to manipulate a witness) even if it was about something potential hurtful.  So what possible reason would he have for shamming his contentment for John’s benefit? He cursed Sherlock for being so good at acting. How could he ever tell what was actually real?

He didn’t put it past Sherlock to simply be too stubborn to admit that John was right and that he was bored stuck in the countryside with no cases. John knew too well that he wouldn’t back down once he had decided to do something. If that was the case perhaps John could get him to see sense, maybe put forward the case for him to move back to London. To Baker Street. John’s heart leapt at the thought. No. Had better not hypothesise, making assumptions without all of the facts was dangerous, he knew that by now.

John entered the cottage silently, not knowing whether Sherlock was in or not. There was only a dim light coming from the living room and John knew he sometimes forgot to turn the lamp off when he went out.

He had not spent much time at Sherlock’s cottage. They had spent some cosy days there in the winter months when the weather forbade them to be outside and the temptation of the fire was too strong. But more often than not they would be out somewhere exploring the county, or at the very least be out in the garden keeping the bees company.

It was a very Sherlock arrangement. A mix between traditional bachelor pad and hipster kitsch with a generous helping of museum-in-a-warzone thrown in. The floors and surfaces were still littered with manuscripts, books, laptops and strange objects in cases. John hadn’t thought about it before but the kitchen was always pristine. Clearly Sherlock’s mess was relegated to the main room whilst the newly discovered Mrs Charnwood reigned in the kitchen.

As he crossed the hallway John noticed there was music coming from behind the closed door to the living room, something smooth and flowing (John would say Mendelssohn but he’d never really got the hang of Classical) and Sherlock rarely went out mid-record.

He knocked carefully and pushed open the door. There was only a muted light illuminating a corner of the room and John had to squint to make sense of the dark shapes that hid there. As soon as he comprehended the scene before him his dormant medic persona flicked to life and adrenaline surged through him.

Sherlock was sprawled over his armchair, still dressed in his suit trousers and shirt, although his left shirt sleeve had been rolled up right to the top of his arm. The tapered fit rolled up so tightly it had become a make-shift tourniquet.

He was imitating a starfish across his armchair. His legs were sprawled open over one armrest whilst his head hung backwards over the other. His left arm was hanging over the front of the seat, clasped by his right. His eyes were closed and he looked serene, if not for the precarious and uncomfortable position he could easily be thought asleep. That is if you could also overlook the slight sheen of sweat covering his clammy skin or the paraphernalia of drug use that littered the floor under his chair.

John’s heart was in his throat as he tore across the room terrified of what he might find on closer inspection.  _No, Sherlock, No. Don’t do this to me again._ He cradled Sherlock in his arms and started to perform his familiar series of medical checks. _Please be ok. Please._ Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open at his touch.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and apprehensive, as if he couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes.

With relief John didn’t find too much immediate damage as he examined Sherlock. He was awake and alert and although his skin was flushed and he had a lowered heart rate, his breathing wasn’t seriously compromised. _Thank God._ Although this positive information didn’t stop John’s mind skittering over all of the potential complications that could still arise. He had unfortunately seen Sherlock in a much worse state in the past and knew what risks he took with his health. He rarely relapsed but there had been moments of weakness over the years, several of which had been severe.

Only after he had fully examined Sherlock did John notice the syringe on the floor near his knees where he had knelt down to get closer to his patient. Picking it up, he also found a small glass vial, mostly empty apart from the slight residue of a clear viscous liquid. It had a tiny handwritten label on it stating that days date, and in even smaller writing another date of several weeks earlier. John presumed the second date was when the solution was formulated and mixed (John had seen that particular dating method many times on lab specimens and articles in the freezer) which meant that the other date must be the date for use – had this always been scheduled for today? This solution mixed weeks ago for this use? _What was special about today?_

John’s terror and panic turned to anger as he tried to comprehend the scene before him, hands raked through his hair as he took long calming breaths.

“Jesus, Sherlock! Fucking, buggering Christ!” John’s language was always colourful when he was angry and rarely made sense.

“What have you done? No, actually, I can arsing well see what you’ve done!” He started to pace around the small open area in the middle of the living room. “Fucking Hell!”

 _Shit_. He thought. _This is not what I expected to happen when I got here. Why are things with Sherlock NEVER FUCKING SIMPLE!_

 “It’s not what it looks like….I’m not…” Sherlock’s tiny voice stuttered once again.

“Not what? Not a drug addict? Not high as a fucking kite?”

“Not a kite…”

“What the hell have you taken? One of your home-made potions? Come on, tell me!”

“Your face is all red, it looks funny...”

Sherlock raised a hand with great effort in an attempt to reach John’s face but stopped halfway as if he had forgotten the point of the movement. He closed his eyes again.

John eventually stopped shouting as it was clear Sherlock had lost track of any conversation and was struggling to stay conscious. It was like yelling at a cushion or a pot plant, Sherlock neither understood nor was affected by his anger.

John tried to work out what he might have taken from his physical symptoms and possible motives. He knew he mixed his own solution which had been carefully considered to give the precise effect he craved, although John had given him various lectures about the human body not being a stable enough to be able to accurately predict the effect of a drug at any given point, and that there were so many variables and potential hazards.

Cocaine, he knew, was for clarity and energy during particularly awful cases, ones which have taken over weeks and led nowhere, or where too much is at stake for a mind slowed by the demands of the transport. There are several choices for boredom depending on other factors – a stimulant when seeking a replacement post-case high or a sedative for wallowing in self-pity. Heroin is for grief and to forget, when things have gone terribly wrong. 

This particular solution seems to be a sedative with some opiate qualities, Sherlock was sleepy, but mostly conscious. His whole body was incredibly relaxed, almost pouring itself out of the armchair, limbs limp and boneless. John can’t tell whether there is also some hallucinogenic element as Sherlock _is_ muttering things John can’t comprehend, but then doesn’t he always?

He seemed overwhelmingly content, like a large purring kitten.  John could almost have described his demeanour as cute if he had stopped being angry and confused for more than two minutes. If his mind wasn’t listing all possible complications and hazards for even minor drug use. He busied himself with carrying out every health check he could think of, until he was satisfied that Sherlock didn’t need more complex medical help.

All the while Sherlock was babbling nonsense. Muttering strings of half-sentences under his breath.

“John, why are you here? I was alone. Only once…..Why aren’t you in London? Once a month.…... It says so on the vials. What happened? ….I’m a chemist. The first Saturday of every month. You look funny, needed to fill the emptiness…. I’m very clever….I wanted to feel better. It’s just chemistry. John. The train? John?”

He was not making any sense and John resigned himself to not getting any answers tonight. He would care for Sherlock as well as he could and hope he would answer for himself tomorrow.

Keeping one eye on Sherlock to monitor his breathing and heart rate John fished his mobile out of his pocket and, cursing, dialled a number he had not needed in four years. He hoped the number was still in use as he had no idea what the passcode to Sherlock’s phone might be and was unsure whether he would be able to unlock it himself.

The ringtone only bleeped twice before the phone was answered with a curt “What has he done now?”

Mycroft sounded the same as ever. He hadn’t changed a bit since John first met him in an abandoned car park 30 years ago, although that could be because he had seemed an old man at the time. At least now his suits and manner are suited to his age and status and seem dignified rather than pompous and antiquated. John knows he is still as involved as ever, arm-pit deep in political scandal and national security. He wondered where he got the energy from.

“It’s not good, Mycroft. I found him high as a kite, collapsed in him armchair, muttering nonsense.”

A long sigh reverberated down the phone.

“He is comfortable?”

“Yeah, I think so. No real damage”

“That is something at least.”

“Are you going to come down here?”

“I can’t John. Not now.” Another sigh, then a pause. “Could you stay with him? I’ll get someone to bring you some things from your flat.”

Was Mycroft going soft in his twilight years? He’d never been this tolerant before. John had expected a team of experts swarming into the place as they spoke, after the last relapse Mycroft had made it quite clear what steps would be taken. But now he was to be left on his own? Mycroft wouldn’t even be coming? Actually that was probably a blessing.

“Of course I can stay, Mycroft, if you’ll think he’ll let me. “

“I’m sure he’ll manage to forgive the intrusion.”

“Did you….Did you know?” _You must have known, you know everything_. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know, John, although it doesn’t surprise me. He’s had a tough few years…Perhaps I should have tried to involve you, but you know I try not to interfere these days. He does so hate my “meddling”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that when he has recovered sufficiently I think you two should talk, and I mean really talk. I know you both find it …challenging. But if you want to help him I suggest you try it.”

“But he never talks to me…”

“Thank you for finding him, John. But… go easy on him.”

The call ended and John put down his phone in disbelief. He wanted to run away, leave this confusion of drug addled ex-detectives and perplexing phone calls. He had to be responsible though for Sherlock’s sake, and when had he ever backed down from that challenge.

As it seemed it would be left to him to care for Sherlock he thought he may as well make a start getting him into a more comfortable position which wouldn’t be a choking risk. Currently his head was rolled over the back of the chair in a disturbing impression of a ragdoll.

With great effort John managed to coax Sherlock out of the chair and manhandle him down the hallway into his bedroom. He was supremely grateful for the cottage being a bungalow as it would have been impossible to manoeuvre up the stairs as Sherlock seemed to have little use of his limbs, or maybe he just couldn’t stay awake long enough to remember how to use them.

John dumped the mass of Sherlock’s body on the bed where he proceeded to curl up in a ball, still muttering to himself.

John perched on the side of the mattress and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Sherlock, I…uh…missed the last train home, I’m going to stay, I hope that’s alright?”

“Yes, John stay.” 

His sleepy voice cracked on the last word and sent a pain rocketing around John’s chest. It was excruciating to see the man so reduced and pitifully incapacitated.

“Well, ok then. I’ll just...”

He made a move to get up of the bed when he was grabbed by two tight, desperate fists. Nails digging into wool, fingers taut; the only time since John had arrived that Sherlock seemed in control of his movements.

“No! Stay!”

“I’m not leaving the house Sherlock, I’ll be on the sofa, really close by.”

  
“Stay, John!”

Sherlock was still clinging onto his jumper with a pained and pleading look on his face. It was as close to begging as John had ever seen.  He let out a sigh and slunk back into the soft pillows next to the headboard. Sherlock pulled himself closer and put his head on John’s lap. He had never been able to refuse Sherlock anything and now he was so in need it would break John’s heart to walk away.

He patted Sherlock’s head, stroking his black and silver curls.

“Ok, it’s Ok. I’m staying here if that’s what you want.”

Sherlock’s hands loosened slightly but stayed tangled in the woollen fibres of the jumper, holding John firmly, his head snuggled into the folds at his stomach.

As Sherlock lay in his arms drifting in and out of consciousness John spent the night with one group of thoughts rotating around his mind.

The drugs always had a purpose. There had always been some trauma to set it off (his mother’s death, a failure in a case) or a case than needed bigger, better, longer brainpower (a flimsy excuse.) John had to admit he was never impulsive or reckless, never the blindly craving addict.

He had known something would happen. Sherlock was incapable of looking after himself.

But what did it Mycroft mean he had had a difficult few years? He couldn’t mean living out here? Sherlock was the one in control here. John was the one left behind unable to impose his desires on the situation. Sherlock only had himself to blame if he was too stubborn to return to London. If he was that bored surely he would leave?

He remembered how Mrs Charnwood, only this afternoon but it seemed a lifetime ago, had talked about Sherlock as a naughty child, and here he was soothing him in the same way. It seemed totally ridiculous to be sitting stroking the hair of sixty-three year old, strung out and talking nonsense. But in certain respects Sherlock Holmes never had grown up.

John didn’t sleep, he just sat carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, trying to decipher the mystery of his muttered dreams. It had been a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am uneasy about this chapter as I’ve always disliked stories that use drug use as a plot device – however that was before s3 and I have changed my mind somewhat after HLV which I think showed us that it is canonically plausible for Sherlock to use drugs either in a controlled way (case) or as an emotional crutch (depending on how you read his motivations).  
> Anyway I thought it made sense in the story, so I went for it. What do you guys think?  
> Hope you don’t mind the progression, things will look up eventually I promise!


	7. The morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after brings the bubbling emotions to a crisis point. Will John and Sherlock be able to finally communicate their feelings?

Light streamed through the cracks in the thin curtains and illuminated the room. John’s shoulder ached where he had been leaning on the headboard. The only part of him that had got any sleep were his legs, which had gone numb under the weight of Sherlock’s body. Slowly Sherlock began to move into consciousness as John continued to stroke his hair.

“Are you awake? How are you feeling?” He uttered in a low, soothing voice.

Sherlock flung his eyes open, looked up in shock then recoiled and jumped off the bed, untangling himself from the covers in an untypically clumsy twist. He looked panicked, spooked by a phantom. Perhaps he didn’t remember last night and why John was there.

“Do you remember yesterday, Sherlock?”

“Of course I remember yesterday! You came to visit, and apparently didn’t manage to leave.”

“I did leave. And then I came back. Do you remember any of that?”

Sherlock screwed up his face and closed his eyes, trying to will himself to unlock the memories. He had moved to stand against the wall at the back of the room, as far away from John as it was possible to be.

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll fill in some blanks then, shall I?” John was starting to get annoyed, the memories of his terror from the previous night getting the better of him, his arms were folded and eyes narrowed. Why did he think he would be able to talk this through rationally?  “I came back and found you off your face collapsed in the front room.”

“Oh, _that_.”

“You remember that then do you?”

“I remember the intention.”

Sherlock had his arms crossed now and a petulant look on his face; he was sulking and John had seen it many times before. He had done something wrong and been caught out. God, he was treating this as if he’d left body parts in the wrong part of the fridge, not injecting himself with some homemade concoction of illegal substances.

“And what was your intention, Sherlock?”

“You shouldn’t be here!”

  
“Don’t try and change the subject!”

 “You should be in London!”

“Well, I’m not am I? I appear to be here caring for my idiotic friend who can’t seem to look after himself without doing something _incredibly stupid_!”

John’s anger had been lying dormant all night and was awakened sharply as soon as Sherlock appeared sober and unimpaired by the previous day’s events. _How are you so fucking stupid_ , he wanted to shout. _How dare you hide this from me? How long has this been going on?_

 “I didn’t ask you to come! I don’t need you to look after me”.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here anyway.”

“Why are you here? You should be in London.”

“London! You’re bloody worried about me missing my train?”

 “No. I’m worried about why you’re here.”

“It was delayed.”

“Not cancelled?”

John felt himself losing control of the conversation as so often happened with Sherlock, who could manipulate an argument in his sleep. He resolved to dig in his heels and demand some answers.

“I was waiting. I met your housekeeper who had some very interesting things to say…. Didn’t think to mention _the drugs_ though,” John spat the words out.

“She doesn’t know.”  Sherlock was in a defensive position now, arms crossed, looking out of the window.

“Well I can see why you sent her away for the weekend then– Didn’t want her seeing you like this.”

“What did she say to you?”

 “This is not fucking about her, Sherlock. This is about you, and why the hell you are using again.”

John was off the bed, his body language confrontational, moving jerkily around the floor.

“Tell me what she said to make you come back.”

 “Tell me why you’re using again!”

Sherlock was starting to tremble, his voice was venomous and spiteful, eyes full of rage and shame.

 “I am an adult. What I do is my own business.”

“I’d like to think it was a bit my business.”

“I don’t need you to look after me!”

“Oh no! I’ve never looked after you before, have I? Never made you eat, or washed your clothes, made your bed!”

“You don’t need to do those things. You are not my mother!”  Sherlock shouted the words, spitting them out of his mouth as though a poison.

John was suddenly reminded of the night in Dartmoor, so many years ago, when he first saw Sherlock struggling with his emotional side. His face, then as now, had screwed up tightly, eyes narrowed and burning brightly, and his voice had the same scathing hatred which now filled the room. The memory immediately softened John’s anger as he remembered the difficulty his friend had with these moments of vulnerability. He tried to change tact, be calm and logical rather than aggressive. He deliberately lowered his vocal tone and tried to calm his movements.

“No, no, I am not your mother, Sherlock. I am your friend. And I expect a certain level of respect with that. I am not someone you were forced to be related to by chance. You chose to be friends with me and you continue to do so. If I am so much of an inconvenience to you I suggest we stop these little visits altogether.”

“Go on then! Get out!”

Unfortunately Sherlock seemed to be too buried in the red mist for this change of pace to have any effect.   He grabbed John hard by the tops of his arms pushed him forcefully out of the door, slamming it shut in his face.

“Don’t do this to me Sherlock, don’t shut me out!”

John heard a smash as something was thrown against the door

“Sherlock…”

“I don’t need you, John. Go away!”

John stood outside the door and took a minute to collect himself. His anger was getting him nowhere. He remembered Mycroft’s words and decided he might be right. They did need to talk, really talk, with no accusations, no interrogations and no fear.  

He sunk into one of the deep armchairs, waited for Sherlock to emerge and resolved to put things right. He couldn’t help but feel that this was a watershed moment for them, a chance to put right any mistakes in their past. To be honest about how they had got to this point, where neither of them trusted the other. And if he wanted Sherlock to be honest with him, that surely meant that he would also have to toughen up and be prepared to be honest too.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry at ending this here! I really didn't want another chapter of pain, but John and Sherlock are so stubborn, they simply refuse to give in and listen to each other!  
> I'm nearly there with the next part, one more to go and then an epilogue. I'll try to put it up soon, and hopefully things can get resolved!
> 
> Thanks for your comments, I love that some of you are frustrated with Sherlock and some with John. Personally I think they're both being idiots! Oh well.


	8. Non-verbal communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last! An honest discussion. John and Sherlock set out to resolve their confusion over each others behaviour.

 

It was late afternoon by the time Sherlock emerged from his room, bleary eyed and reeking of stale cigarettes. (At this point John felt he had more pressing issues than an anti-smoking lecture.) He looked much calmer but somewhat sheepish as he approached John and sat down in the opposite armchair.

“I didn’t know if you would still be here?” 

 “Of course I am.”

“I don’t understand why you are, John. Your obligations as my friend have been far exceeded in the past 24 hours. Don’t feel you need to stay.”

“My ‘obligations’ are to make sure you are ok, and that involves discussion I’m afraid. I know we’re crap at it but I’m willing to try if you are.” John’s voice was calm, determined to make this work.

“Discussion? Sounds tedious.” Sherlock crossed his arms and sunk back into the chair.  


“I’m not saying we’ll enjoy it but I think we need to talk. There are so many things about this that I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand either!” Sherlock slammed his wrist into his forehead. “I never know what you’re thinking, John. I hate it. No-one else can do this to me.”

“Well, hopefully we can each find out what we need to know. You’ll have to promise me you’ll be honest with me though.”

“I’m always honest with you!” Sherlock looked appalled at the suggestion.

“Ok, I don’t just mean honest then, I mean no avoidance tactics. You need to tell me whatever is troubling you, and in return I will answer any of your questions. I accept you have secrets Sherlock, and things you don’t want to discuss with me but this is non-negotiable.” John pointed to the tiny clear vial on the table and gave Sherlock his sternest look.

“If you insist.”

Sherlock gingerly retreated back into his room and John was terrified he might have abandoned the conversation to return to his sulking. However he returned a few minutes later with a first aid box that looked like it was made in the 1950’s. It was pocket sized, with rounded aluminium sides, a metal clasp and a red cross painted on the front. John had seen it before in Sherlock’s room but never given any thought to what might be inside.

“The truth, John.”

Sherlock put the box on the coffee table and carefully opened the catch. John noticed his fingers were trembling slightly, and understood why when the inside revealed two tiny vials. They were identical to the one John had found the previous evening only these were full of the clear liquid.

Sherlock lifted one out and placed it next to the box on the table, turning the label around to face John, then added the second.

John gasped as he took in the dates on the labels, they were clearly marked for the next two of John’s scheduled visits. His brain went into meltdown at this revelation and Sherlock thankfully gave him time to set those cogs in motion without trying to artificially hurry the process. It wasn’t just a coincidence or a one-off that John had managed to stumble upon, he must do this after every visit.

“Me. It’s because of _me_?” John managed to croak out as his throat tightened against his words.

The vials prove a methodical and restrained approach for planning and control. A way to manage a symptom. A regular addict would not be able to resist the temptation, surely. There must be a purpose to this.   

John could only think of one reason for Sherlock to need a hit after seeing him. John’s visits must be painful. But if he didn’t want to see John he would definitely have said so. Sherlock had many flaws in his communication systems but telling people he didn’t like them was not one. Therefore the reverse must be true, he was in pain because he didn’t want John to leave. It was a fucking ridiculous reason for taking such a risk, putting his life in the hands of an unstable drug, but the motivation… it wasn’t boredom after all… it was sentiment.

 John thought back to his own feelings of despair from that afternoon, sitting on the railway station bench after having said goodbye again, knowing it would be a month until the next visit. Had Sherlock felt the same way?

He didn’t know how to proceed. For what seemed hundredth time that weekend confusion struck him. It was jumbled now with excitement, nervousness and hope but it still lingered underneath them all.  How could he vocalise all of the questions he had? This was an important moment, he had to get in right this time. Should he be confrontational again? Ask flat out why Sherlock was using? That hadn’t worked out well so far. Or should he ask what he felt at the end of John’s visit? Or be even more direct, ask how he felt about John? He suspects that might be even worse. Either he’ll shut down or perhaps he doesn’t even know the answer himself.

So, trying to tame his fluttering breath, his trembling hands and the jitters in his tummy, he decided to start at the beginning and try and get Sherlock to open up a bit before they tackled the more difficult issues. _Why must everything with him be like planning a bloody tactical manoeuvre?_

“Can I ask you a question Sherlock?” John got a shy nod in reply. “Do you _like_ living here?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised quizzically, it was clearly not the question he had been expecting, then relaxed back to his neutral expression, contemplating the answer for several minutes before replying.

“I like many things about living here. I chose it because it has many geographical features I admire. The cliffs, the caves, the sea. I love being able to see the sea every day, observe its shifting patterns. I love my bees, they are endlessly fascinating. I love the quiet. London became too overwhelming for me in the end.”

“Yes, but are you happy here?”

“As happy as I’d be anywhere.”

“I thought we were trying not to avoid questions, Sherlock. What does that _mean_?”

Sherlock took a great, deep breath, tried to keep his expression neutral and with an enormous effort managed to get through his response.

“This is as good as anywhere if I’m forced to live without you.”

“You’re not forced to live without me! Who is forcing you?”

John’s thoughts immediately turned dire. Could some unknown evil have forced him to live out here, cut off from the metropolis, some kind of exile? It made some kind of sense, but who could it be? Mycroft, master criminals, arch-enemies? All of those were long gone, left behind in London years ago.

“John! Don’t mock me! You made it clear you were never going to leave London. And I couldn’t stay there.”

John’s mouth hung open as he was flawed by this answer. He didn’t quite understand, although guessed he was being blamed for something.

“Hang on a minute! Just wait there. What are you talking about?”

“You made your choice. The night you said you didn’t want to come with me, John. When I told you I wanted to come here.”

Sherlock was animated now, agitated. His expression was pained rather than neutral and he was twisting his fingers around in his hand.

“I never said that!” John exclaimed emphatically, hands thrust wildly in the air.

“You said ‘London is the only place that can stimulate you...I can’t understand why you’d want to leave it. I’d certainly never give it up!’ and then you went on to say ‘No fucking way’, which I unambiguously took to mean you weren’t interested”.

Something of that nature was coming back to him, although that night was a long time ago now, he didn’t know exactly what he had said. Trust Sherlock to be able to remember the conversation verbatim. But that wasn’t what he had been talking about. They had been discussing Sherlock retiring on his own, hadn’t they? John had been trying to get him to see how good London was, not saying he didn’t want to be with him.

“I didn’t know what I was choosing! Hell, I didn’t even know I had a decision to make! You were the architect in this!”

“John?”   Sherlock asked, confused.

“So, you weren’t telling me you were leaving? You were asking me to come with you?”

_Oh my God! How had this happened?_

“You know what I was saying, John. You were there!”

 “I remember you said you wanted to be alone, and I said I understood what that meant. But I don’t think I did.”

John dropped his head into his hands and pulled his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself down. All of the thoughts and feelings he had held on the night of ‘the Decision’ came flooding back in. Hope fluttered under his skin and he could sense his lips trembling as he spoke.

“I think perhaps that you meant alone….uh….together?”

“Obviously.”

_Bloody hell!_

“No, Sherlock! Not bloody obvious! Not to me. I thought you’d decided you didn’t want me around anymore.”

“John. When previous to that had I ever indicted that I could be apart from you for more than five minutes. I mean, I couldn’t even make a cup of tea without you.”

“I thought that was the point. You said it was too busy in Baker Street. I thought you’d got bored of having me around all of the time!”

“Bored! How could I get bored of you? You are the most fascinating human I have ever met – even after thirty years. Despite apparently being the most oblivious if you thought I wanted to get away from you! It was everyone else intruding on our time together I wanted to stop.”

John was in total meltdown mode. He couldn’t actually process the feelings that were surging through him or the thoughts that were cycling through his mind. The last two days had been such a mix of adrenaline and heightened emotions that he wasn’t sure if he was interpreting things correctly.

For his part Sherlock didn’t look much more comfortable. He would not look John in the eye and was nervously shifting his weight between his legs, His voice was higher than normal, strained with the difficulty of expressing his feelings.

They sat in silence for several minutes, both men tense.

“This is too much. I can’t… You mean that the past four years you’ve actually wanted me to be here with you?”

“All of the time, John. I never want to be without you.”

 Sherlock looked John in the eyes, his expression soft and open. He leaned forward across the gap in between their armchairs and put his hand tentatively on John’s knee. John could feel its warmth radiating through his leg. The only problem was that it drew John’s eyes back to the two vials still standing on the little table next to them.

“But you’ve been lying to me, pretending to be happy?”

“I’ve not pretended anything. I feel good when you’re here and bad when you go. You wanted to know about the drugs and that is it. It’s not all the time. I just…don’t like it when you leave. I can’t cope with it on my own.” Sherlock paused for a second, then added in a smaller voice, “It’s just the first night, when I can still feel the touch of you on my skin, and smell the scent of you on my clothes”.

Again John thought of his own feelings from yesterday afternoon as he sat on the railway bench. Did Sherlock really feel the same way? Did that mean he loved John too? If it didn’t make so much sense John would never have been able to believe that this might be true.

Sherlock leant forward some more so that their foreheads were practically touching. John’s vision had blurred at the proximity and he could feel Sherlock’s breath on his cheek. _Christ. I need to man up!_   John had to know. After last time he knew he couldn’t walk away from this situation not knowing for sure what Sherlock wanted and how he felt.

John took the leap of faith he wished he had taken thirty years previously as they panted side by side against the wall after their first dinner together. He closed the gap between their mouths and placed his hands gingerly on Sherlock’s neck. His hesitancy lasted all of three seconds until Sherlock joined the endeavour with full force, their lips and teeth clattering together in a messy fevered snog. In honesty it was more of a tussle than a kiss, the desperation of both participants seeping out in grabbing fists and deep thrusts of tongue. They were trying to claim each other, get inside the others skin, explain all of the hurt and misunderstandings in one go. It was too rough and harsh to be sexual although John did end up straddling Sherlock’s thighs after he was pulled from his own chair. John hadn’t kissed that way in decades. His usual relationships being chosen mainly for convenience and emotional detachment.

After their initial desperation was sated the kiss became languid and full of affection but there remained a raft of unaddressed questions in John’s mind. His panic had been soothed by the voracity of Sherlock’s physical affections but he still had to make sure he was understanding correctly now, after so much time when they had not been on the same page. He carefully removed himself from the armchair, knees creaking, and moved slightly to stand in front of the fireplace.

“So… you want this? I mean, um… you’ve never seemed interested in any of this before.” He waved his hands vaguely between them.

“And you’ve made your thoughts perfectly clear over the years, all of those times you’ve talked of our ‘friendship’ and how you’re not gay and…”

“I’m not gay, you idiot, but it’s you! Surely you can see that overrides everything.”

“Yes, thank you I do understand that idea that sexuality can be fluid…”  Sherlock turned away from John, his face becoming pained once more. The sight of it caused John’s stomach to clench and he knew that their past shouldn’t matter anymore.

“No, actually, stop. I don’t care about what we’ve said in the past. If we were any good at communicating we’d have got to this point 30 years ago!”

“29.” Sherlock corrected.

“What?”

“Well, I didn’t know I loved you until after the pool incident with Moriarty. So, 29 years.”

“God. You’re such a pedant.”

John’s heart suddenly constricted when he caught up with that sentence.

“You just said you love me!”

“Of course, John. Don’t be an idiot now, you were doing so well!”

John playfully punched Sherlock in the arm but it turned into a grab. He pulled Sherlock out of his chair, wrapping his arms tightly around his back and kissed him again. This time slow and tender, their arms caressing neck, shoulders, back, sides, tracing circles into skin.

“I do too, you know. Love you.”  Standing in the arms of the man he loved, John felt utterly content for the first time in 30 years. He knew he had reached true happiness. He thought of the terrible pain they had both inflicted upon each other and resolved to never leave Sherlock again, even for a day.

 “Will you… stay with me then?” Sherlock muttered into the grey hairs at the top of John’s head, now snuggled under his chin.

John’s only answer was to take Sherlock’s hand and lead him down the corridor into the bedroom. They had always been so terrible at communicating their feelings through talking. Perhaps non-verbally, with hands and mouths they would be able to forge a new language. One which could express their love without words, without misunderstandings and without pain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has followed with me on this. My idea for this fic was to see how much misery could come from one misunderstanding between two characters who cannot communicate effectively. I’m sorry if you feel it’s been too drawn out but with John and Sherlock being so emotionally repressed I didn’t think they would give in easily (or it would have been settled so long ago.) I hope it has been good agony rather than bad!
> 
> Also apologies for no porn (personally I’m a pretty asexual lesbian so found it impossible to effectively describe them without resorting to fanfic cliché.) I would however love it if someone wanted to write a delicious sex scene to add in! 
> 
> I have marked this as complete but I will at some point add an epilogue. I didn’t want to make this part too long with loads of explanations, but if there is something you think I’ve missed out let me know and I’ll try and wrangle it in.


	9. Once more at Victoria Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue catching up with John and Sherlock six months after sorting out their misunderstandings.

Six Months Later:

“Platform one for the 8.03 Southern Railway service to Eastbourne”. The ubiquitous electronic voice crackled over the quiet concourse of London Victoria station. John Watson strained his hearing towards the tannoy as it announced “calling at Clapham Junction, East Croyden, Gatwick Airport, Haywards Heath, Brighton, Wivelsfield, Lewes….” until at last “Eastbourne” was croaked out in the recorded monotone.

As soon as he was satisfied he had the correct platform he leaned back onto the hard metal bench and sighed, thinking of the last time he had sat here alone waiting for a train to take him to Sussex. It triggered the memory of his melancholy that day, the aching want and feeling of hopelessness that threatened to engulf him.

This time however, he only smiled to himself, amused at the difference in his life since that moment six months ago. He probably looked ridiculous to any passers-by, a grown man sitting grinning on a bench in the middle of Victoria Station.

He hadn’t spent much time alone since that night, preferring to keep Sherlock in his sight and wary of provoking any feelings of abandonment. The pain and panic of finding him collapsed in the living room still caused a clench of fear in his chest, so he had not had much time to reflect on the changes to his life. But sitting at this bench seemed symbolic somehow, with so many mornings spent waiting in anxious anticipation of Sherlock’s company, trying not to engage with the coursing, pining ache inside.

If only he could go back to that John and tell him what would shortly be happening to improve his life so much.  Now he was happy. Sherlock was his and they lived a frankly idyllic lifestyle he could never have imagined for himself.

The response to their announcement had been a universal sigh of relief. Mycroft had rolled his eyes and muttered something that sounded very like “about time.” Greg had embraced both John and Sherlock in a giant bear-hug and started to plan his first trip to visit them both.  His other friends had clapped him on the back and offered their congratulations on finally working things out. John would have felt mortified at this point, knowing that everyone had seen this development coming years ago, except that he was so deliriously happy (and for the fact that if even the genius mind of Sherlock Holmes hadn’t figured it out, he really couldn’t have been expected to).

John had stayed true to his promise and had as yet never left Sherlock’s side. Mycroft arranged for his things to be moved and the flat to be let. Sherlock and John travelled together to London to organise details and see a few friends and John didn’t let him out of his sight the whole time.

He regarded his happiness with a touch of incredulity and kept expecting Sherlock to realise his mistake. But he supposed he had been waiting long enough, perhaps he deserved this now, a reward for leading a good(ish) life. (He was not sure where committing manslaughter to protect someone or GBH for self-protection counted in the balance of karma).

A loud noise echoed across the platform and John came back from his recollections and ruminations as a lanky lump of black slumped down on the bench next to him swearing loudly.

“Morons! Seriously! They’ve cancelled our carriage so our reservations are invalid. If we can’t sit together I am going to HURT someone!”

John grinned at these hysterics, and adopted his amused, placating voice, specially reserved for small children and ex-consulting detectives.

“Look around Sherlock, there’s hardly anyone here. They’ve probably cancelled the carriage because there’s not enough passengers to need it. There will be plenty of seats.” He patted Sherlock’s thigh and gave it a little squeeze. Sherlock didn’t respond well, instead getting up and pacing the platform edge.

“That’s not the point! What is the reason for having a reservation system if they don’t stick to it! You don’t turn up at the theatre and get an “Oh, sorry sir, we seem to have cancelled your reservation for a private loge, but feel free to choose any of the seats at the back of the upper circle, apologies about the height and the restricted views. It’s just not good enough! … I’ve had enough of this appalling service I’m going to ring the head of Southern Railway – He’s an old friend of Mycroft’s.”

He paced down the platform, his back to John and his phone pressed tightly into his ear. Even several metres away John could hear his demanding tones and chuckled to himself as he had a vision of a terrified PA somewhere scuttling off to track down her boss.

He had given up trying to talk Sherlock down from these tantrums during their weekends away, and even found them quite sweet (just proof of how mushy love could make your brain.) Ever since they had made the change from friends to lovers and John had moved to Sussex, they had started a new arrangement. Rather than John visiting Sherlock on the first Saturday of every month they instead took a weekend away somewhere and explored it together. This served several purposes, they still got a sense of excitement from exploring somewhere new, they had a way to mark their monthly anniversaries, and most of all gave Sherlock a purpose: researching and planning the weekend as he had done with their days out.

They had spent this weekend up in Northumberland because Sherlock had wanted to visit Cragside, the home of Victorian inventor Lord Armstrong and the first house in the world to be lit using hydroelectricity. He had used his fame and a fervent email campaign to charm the archivist into letting them test out the gadgets and inventions there in exchange for a short interview to be used to promote the historic property. The trust had planned their day’s activities but Sherlock had taken care of the rest of the trip. He had meticulously planned every detail specifically to cater for John’s preferences. So they stayed in an intimate Bed and Breakfast guest house with a sweet local couple rather than in the luxury minimalist boutique hotel that Sherlock would prefer.

Sherlock didn’t say he loved John often but he expressed it sincerely in every unselfish decision he made and each thoughtful piece of planning he put in place during these weekends. He seemed to have replaced his case-load with just one; making sure that John was content, and he gave the task his undivided attention.

The only downside to this arrangement was that Sherlock was very fussy about everything going exactly according to his detailed schedule. Whereas John enjoyed the spontaneity of travel, Sherlock liked everything to be minutely planned. John knew he just wanted him to be happy, which was why he worried about the details so much. They would both be fine sitting on separate seats in the regular carriages, but Sherlock wanted everything to be perfect and therefore wouldn’t rest until the situation was resolved. It was sweet really, John thought, even as he heard the brutality of Sherlock’s voice on the telephone.

Sherlock ended the call, stuffed his phone back into his oversized pocket and stalked back over to the bench.

“All sorted John. We shall be residing in First Class for the remainder of our journey, courtesy of Southern Railway.”

“Well, aren’t we persuasive today!”  He reached out and stroked Sherlock’s cheek, leaned forward and pressed a tiny peck just below his cheekbone.  “Come on then, oh powerful and persuasive defender of our consumer rights. Where are these seats?”

Sherlock pulled John to his feet with one hand and the luggage with the other and dragged them both towards the train. He quickly found their seats, stowed their luggage and got both of them settled into the plush seating of First Class.

The journey from Newcastle had been tiring and before long John succumbed to the pulsing rhythm of the train and the soft warmth of the carriage and fell asleep.

When he began to come back into the conscious world an hour or so later he could hear voices in the carriage surrounding them, no doubt other passengers had joined since London. However the sound was muffled as his head seemed to be buried deep in Sherlock chest, a protective arm draped around his shoulders. His nose was pressed into Sherlock’s coat lapels and he was consumed by the comforting smell he thought of as home.  He felt no desire to move, content to be pressed up against Sherlock.

There was chatter all around them, but he began to be able to pick up bits of a conversation. His deduction skills had improved over the years, even with his eyes shut.

“….. Absolutely adorable, don’t you think so Jackie.”

He picked out a woman’s voice, close by; possibly across the aisle, probably middle aged / late 50’s, high and light and full of life.

“Oh yes, lovely! I remember when you and Bill were like that, so devoted, so sweet, couldn’t take your hands off each other.”  Another woman’s voice, likely the same aged. She had a lower tone to her speech and it was more wistful and nostalgic.

“God! That was a long time ago wasn’t it. He barely looks at me now, old git!”

“Same as my Ted. Can barely say a civil word to me these days, it’s like he’s a different man to the one I married. Once he was interested in me, now all he wants to talk about is fishing and golf. What happened to that sweet young man I met at the school dance, that’s what I want to know?”

John began to feel slightly guilty about eavesdropping on this private conversation but he was too engrossed in trying to deduce the specifics of the situation to mind too much. He made sure he was still feigning sleep as he tried to work out what had prompted this conversation, he guessed there must be a young couple somewhere nearby.

“You, though. What a lovely thing to be so in love, and at your age too!”

“…You’re such a lovely couple! It’s obvious you adore him! How long have you been together?”

 John had to supress a grin at his deduction being correct. Now just to try and work out where they were, and perhaps sneak a glance…

“Just over 30 years.”

John’s heart twisted as he felt the rumble of Sherlock’s deep voice under his head and heard those words in a proud and awed whisper. _Oh!_ They _were the lovely couple!_ 30 years together – did he really see it like that? Officially it had only been six months.  He felt his cheeks flush as a wave of love coursed through him at the romantic connotations of that statement.

“Oh my goodness, how lovely. Isn’t that lovely Helen.”

“Wonderful! Such a long time, and still so close. You must feel incredibly lucky!”

“I assure you, I am more than aware of how fortunate I am.”  
Sherlock clenched the hand that was draped around him as he replied and John thought it might be the perfect time to ‘wake – up’. He started to wriggle, flutter his eyelids and then groaned slightly as he shifted under Sherlock’s tight hold.

“John! You’re awake! Wonderful! Entertaining as it is counting all of the remaining hairs on your head and calculating a grey to blonde ratio, I would find it much more pleasurable if you were awake!” He snaked his arm downwards and gave John a playful squeeze around his expanding middle.

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully except for Sherlock describing the rest of the passenger’s secrets in detail, but they had all been so charmed by him earlier that they didn’t really mind. Soon they had arrived in Eastbourne and were hurtling down country lanes in the Land Rover.

It was dark before they reached the house, but it still gave John a burst of pleasure as he saw it come into view; A symbol of their new life together. _Home._

As they entered the house a delighted squeal came from the kitchen as Mrs Charnwood came bustling out. “Boys! How was your trip? Tell me everything! John, was he frightful? How was the weather?”

“Mrs C. what are you doing here so late? You should be at home.” 

“Just wanted to make sure you were both settled and had everything you need after such a long journey!”

John thought they should have known she would be there, she was utterly devoted to the pair of them. She fussed them considerably and had proven herself unembarrassable when either walking in on the pair in compromising situations or states of undress. She had also proven tenacious in her pursuit of intimate personal information, wanting to know everything about their relationship. She was seemingly oblivious to John’s embarrassment or desire to keep private issues private.  Sherlock however had no such compunction and often used her for a second opinion if he was perplexed by John’s behaviour or thought he was being unreasonable in whatever issue.

She had become very fond of Sherlock despite his tantrums and acted as much like his mother as Mrs Hudson had, despite them being practically the same age. As for John she seemed to regard him as some kind of magician for having such a great effect on Sherlock’s behaviour and transforming him into a pleasant and amiable character.  In return they both adored her for being the catalyst, however unwitting, that had brought them together. It was only because of this that John engaged her in conversation at this point, rather than simply collapsing into bed.

 “Thank you, that’s so kind, but I think we’re fine. How was _your_ weekend? How is Lucy?”

Sherlock started fake yawning and went to get her coat.

 “Oh, wonderful, we started on Saturday by….”

Sherlock came back with her coat, swept over and planted a kiss on the top of her head then started to push her out of the door. “Thank you, Mrs C…” He was less accommodating than John, with the added bonus that no-one expected him to be polite anyway.

“Oh…See you tomorrow then boys, I’ll be in for breakfast.”

  
“Nonsense, we can fix that, besides John won’t be up til late. Don’t bother coming til the afternoon at least.”

“Alright Dear, wouldn’t want to cramp your style.” She was trying hard not to be forced out of the door, wanting to absorb every last minute with her ‘boys’.

“Go!”  Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved her harder towards the door.

 “Bye John.”

“Cheerio, Mrs C.”

John carried their bags up to the bedroom and flopped down onto their bed sighing in contentment as his weary bones were cushioned by soft bulges of duvet. He closed his eyes and wished he was already under the covers. Sherlock came through and started putting his things away in their wardrobe.

  
“Urghh! John, how can you still be tired. You slept for at least two hours already today!”

“Not quite, you’re losing your deductive powers! I was awake for some of that time.” He turned his head to flash a toothy grin. “I heard what you said to that woman on the train, you know. About us having been together for thirty years.”

Sherlock put down the shoes he was unpacking and came to sit close by on the bed, his thigh touching John’s where he was sprawled out. John turned and hauled himself upright again and ran one hand up Sherlock’s thigh. One trick he had learnt in the past few months was that Sherlock could be soothed into revealing his feelings by subtle stroking. John supposed it gave his brain something else to focus on and therefore forgot to protect the defensive barriers erected around his heart. 

“Do you really think of us as having been together for 30 years?” He asked.

Sherlock’s hand joined John’s on his thigh as it rubbed up and down, fingers interlocking and pressing down with a steady pressure.

“Well, I hardly think answering ‘six months’ would have satisfactorily explained our relationship. Besides, for me, there hasn’t been anyone else.” He stopped and swallowed a few times, still uncomfortable with sharing his feelings, even though after all the misunderstandings he was convinced how important it was. “We’ve spent a lifetime together, or very nearly together. In the future if people talk about me they will always talk about _us_ :  “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson”, a unit, a couple.  It hardly matters that we weren’t technically together.”

“Or that I was married to someone else?” John asked seriously. They had not talked about this part of his life much.

“That was only for two years. Nothing really in the timeline of our lives. Although I assure you I didn’t see it like that at the time. Back then I truly thought I’d never get another chance.” Sherlock gave him a heartfelt smile that radiated through his face, tinged only by a hint of regret lingering in his eyes.

“Me too, I was sure I’d fucked everything up after that. I often wondered what might have happened if I’d never have met Mary.” He shuddered at the name. The whole incident was such a long time ago, but the wound her betrayal had left was still raw after all of this time.

 “Do you wish we had been together all of that time?”  Sherlock asked with a sad curiosity.

John took a deep breath before answering this question. It should have been a straightforward answer; yes, of course - They had wasted so many years! However, John had recently been questioning this, and the conversation he had heard on the train that evening only added to his ideas.

“In some ways, but you wouldn’t be like this then. You wouldn’t be _this_ Sherlock without those terrible years, learning to live alone without the work. I hate to think of the pain we were both in but you weren’t ready before. If you were you would have said something.”

“Hmm, I suppose that’s true.” Sherlock didn’t seem convinced.

“How I see it, you are the opposite of the husbands of those women on the train. When we first met you were that oblivious, selfish man obsessed with his own interests (murder for you though, rather than fishing) and over the years you have evolved into this sweet caring one – don’t pull that face, it’s very much a compliment! We’ve definitely done it the right way around. You’re ready to give me your full attention now and I don’t have to share you with crime scenes and serial killers. Just the bees, but they are very gracious about it.”

Sherlock leant over and pinned John to the bed with his long arms, and just stared for a minute taking in the sight before him.

“John, you are such an amazing man! How can you not be bitter about how I have treated you?”

 “Because I love you, you idiot! And I treated you just as badly.”  John brought his head up as high as he could manage with his arms held down, and met Sherlock’s lips in a tender kiss. Sherlock melted into his touch and was soon splayed out on the bed next to John boneless in his arms. He would still not admit to being tired, but John could tell the exertions of the weekend had taken their toll.

“Come on you, get into bed, you must be tired really under all of that bravado, and after last night I think both of us have a bit of sleep to catch up on!” He shoved Sherlock off the bed and started to get up himself to start his night time routines.

By the time Sherlock came back from the bathroom John was delightfully drowsy, but was still awake enough to appreciate long arms scooping up behind him and fastening around his waist as bony knees came to settle behind his own. He wriggled backwards to press himself further into Sherlock’s arms.

 “Thanks so much for organising such a great trip.” He murmured sleepily.  “I wish you’d let me sort some things out for next time though!” (John knew this wouldn’t happen, but thought he should at least voice the sentiment).

  
“Nonsense!” Sherlock replied in a light voice. “You secretly like me organising things.”            

  
“Well… it does rather make a change from the rest of our lives, Mr I-need-a-housekeeper-to-pay-my-bills-for-me.” John conceded

“You will keep coming away with me won’t you?” Sherlock’s voice had started to take on its own sleepy timbre and vibrated deeply along John’s chest where they were pressed together.

John sighed, he loved the reassurance that Sherlock worried about things like this, but hated that he could be in any doubt of John’s affections.

 “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I will never leave you again, not even for a night. You don’t need to worry.” Sherlock pressed a sleepy kiss to the back of his head and could feel the curve of his lips as he smothered a smile there.

In previous relationships he’d always been the big spoon in all aspects, liking to take control, to protect another enveloped in his arms. He could have taken offense at a perceived slight to his masculine protector role, but in this, as in so much else, Sherlock proved the exception. Similar to his new found obsession with providing John’s comfort and happiness, cuddling seemed so un-Sherlock like that John simply revelled in the unusual occurrence.  It was another reminder of the differences between the image Sherlock had always projected of himself and the reality that John now got to experience. Besides, it was nice to be held, supported, comforted and he knew in turn how much stability and strength he provided for his partner.

John fell asleep the same way as he always did now, in Sherlock’s arms, looking forward to the following day. They might potter in the garden, inspect the bees, drink tea with their neighbours, go for a walk to the next village or the beach. It should seem boring, the lack of adrenaline fuelled adventure. It should re-awaken his need for danger, his tremor, his feelings of desperation at the mundane pointlessness of his life. But it didn’t. With Sherlock beside him it was simply bliss. Sometimes annoying and infuriating, but perfect all the same. He knew that whatever tomorrow might bring, it would be amazing.

In his head, John labelled this stage of his life – The Paradise Years, and he hoped it would continue long into the future.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right! That is actually it now! Finished.  
> I hope that was ok as an end point, I just wanted to show a snapshot of what their life together might be like and that they still have a long time together ahead of them. Personally i don't think being in their sixties is too old (my parents are that age and have a more active social life than me!) so I hope they can be happy together for decades yet!  
> Thanks for following this and all of the lovely comments. 
> 
> If you liked this you can check out my other stories, I have started a series based on a comment in the first chapter of this fic referencing Sherlock and John's 'celebrity years' - So all of the stories are inspired by an aspect of the celebrity lifestyle. 
> 
> Also check out my tumblr (http://barbarismbeginsatholmes.tumblr.com/) for illustrations and news of new stories.

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into fanfics (because not enough retirementlock gets written!). I'm an Illustrator, so i'm hoping to do some accompanying artwork soon!  
> Check out my tumblr (barbarismbeginsatholmes.tumblr.com) for well, more stuff.


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